Amnesia Says
by FuckMePumps
Summary: ROYAI. It's the anniversary of Hughes' death, and a dwindling sunset that should've been spent staring at his tombstone turns into a night of alcoholic heartbeats, fumbling touches, and misplaced confessions.


**A fleeting comeback into a fandom I will always, always love. Got a little inspiration for a Royai short, so it would have been a shame to let it go. And I wrote it down.**

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Anniversaries were for remembering, but the rest of the year was for _not _forgetting.

She bore witness to his hollow eyes everyday, becoming more unfathomable every hour, on the hour.

She hasn't tried to light them up again, because she didn't know how.

They made it about only ten feet away then, before they came upon a woman hunched on the ground, her back turned to them. Beside her a little girl stands, unmoving, in contrast to the older one with the shaking shoulders.

He stops in his stride, assuming a pained expression upon seeing them. He bows his head, shadowing his stricken gaze, and her fingers hovers above his shoulder, uncertain, before he turns around. The cluster of peonies he clutched drops carelessly, making no sound on the pliant grass, just like his footsteps as he walks back to the car. Without a word, she follows.

And so a day that should have spent staring at a tombstone and ignoring at a beautiful unfolding sunset turned into just another night sitting on barstools, two high ranking officers no better than the drunkards (or should we say cowards?) wasting away into hangovers with pulses.

She only takes bitter sips from her glass, with the other hand resting lightly on her holster, a hint of cold metal under rigid leather. Meanwhile, he downs shot after shot without hesitation, losing himself in the spikes of the liquid in his throat or the slick sweat of poison heat making his shirt stick to his skin.

His furtive glances are now hazy sheens of mindlessness, empty and stripped of the usual apathetic wisdom. She can do nothing but watch, her insides churning, _yearning._

Then the casual smirk transforms into a fumbling grin, awkward on such cynical lips, and from them slip things that should not have been said aloud in the first place.

Enemies would take note of them in their minds and use them to harm him later on; friends and colleagues would either be astonished or swollen into fits of unforgiving laughter; but she only listens, struggling to keep a controlled façade as he crumbles before her, a portrait of the slowest decay. It happens, every time, when their evenings didn't consist of paperwork reminders or working on some operation, and she has almost become used to his deterioration. Almost.

At one point he tries to rise, to collapse his mouth on top of hers, a gesture of idle lust or gentle, clumsy care, or maybe nothing, just nothing at all, and that's when she realizes he's had enough and helps him up, only for him to slump back down the counter.

We should head home, sir, she says briskly, as he cradled his forehead on gloved palms.

He groans in response, and she questions, What was that, sir? in a voice much too soft to have belonged to her.

I can't, I can't leave, not yet, not like this, he mutters incomprehensibly. His damp charcoal locks frame his face like hanged men, and when he talked his whispers were wet with tears.

He's dead, he's dead, and I couldn't stop it, with silent sobs terrorizing his frame, the grief so dark and ugly and encompassing. I couldn't save him.

I know they hate me for it, he continues miserably. They look at me and they ask me why I couldn't do it, didn't do it. They all hate me because I'm not a hero, I don't deserve it. How can I save the world when I couldn't even save _him_?

She is shocked, to say the least. None of their previous endeavors had ever ended up like this, and perhaps it has gone too far this time, and the cracks in his emotions where beginning to ooze damage.

I know they hate me, he slurs, as he fixes his glistening black eyes on hers. You hate me too, don't you?

No! was the instant reply on her tongue, but she is mute as he rambles on.

It's okay, don't worry, I can never get angry with you, even if you hate me, he reassures, so trusting and pathetic and vulnerable at that moment, that she could not restrain herself from letting concern cloud her tone as she grasps one of his hands, squeezing tightly as a measly promise of forever.

I don't hate you, she trembles with a sigh, I don't hate you at all.

A beat.

As a matter of fact, I love you.

She blurts out, her fear and indecision and her heart spat out into her half-filled glass, and it is far too late to take them back.

The smile that sparks in his suddenly somber eyes reaches his lips, and he speaks with a frightening clarity.

You're only telling me this because you think I'll forget about it tomorrow.

She gapes.

He laughs, a tease.

I probably will, anyway, he shrugs, and she just _cannot _believe him for what he says next.

(So it won't make much of a difference if you throw in a kiss too).

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**I swear, it wasn't meant to end that way. Roy Mustang is such a tool. Haha. **

**Please review!**


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